


all the gold and the guns

by theviolonist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea is a shadow behind Mycroft Holmes, her thumbs swiping silently over her Blackberry keys. Unfortunately for her, Irene has always been good at seeing what's in the shadows, and she loves a woman who doesn't show fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the gold and the guns

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just me being self-indulgent. The wonderful [verbyna](http://verbyna.livejournal.com) made a mix for this [here](http://verbyna.livejournal.com/88060.html). Thank you to Ashleigh, Laura and Jasmine for the beta!

At the beginning of this story, Irene Adler kidnaps Anthea.

*

Anthea meets Mycroft Holmes, and Irene meets Sherlock, both of whom are wondrous, terrifying men, but Irene and Anthea are women of steel. They match, as much as anyone can match the Holmes brothers; Anthea becomes an ally, Irene becomes an enemy.

It's more complicated than that, but it'll have to do. You know how it goes, government records, top-secret and all that.

(Their files are in the basement at MI6, in an unlabelled cardboard box, n°17854 and 29836. The door has a retina scan because Irene already tried to steal hers once. Those files are the copies of those in Mycroft Holmes' drawer in his office in Radnor Walk. No one tries to steal those, even though the only thing that protects them is the 18th century gilded lock and two bodyguards with Glocks standing at the gates in front of the house.)

*

At the beginning of the story, it’s 1984 and Irene Adler is born in Jersey. She leaves her family home at fourteen to sing for the London Opera. In her lifetime, she marries eighteen men and three women, none of whose names she takes. She takes other things instead: paintings, jewellery and silver cutlery offered by scornful mother-in-laws as wedding gifts.

She steals her birth act and wipes her existence off the records five years before she meets Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't mind, he has easier ways to find her. She falls in love with him, which could be a big deal but isn't, since it's something she's always made a habit of. He beats her once and saves her twice.

Anthea is a shadow behind Mycroft Holmes, her thumbs swiping silently over her Blackberry keys. Unfortunately for her, Irene has always been good at seeing what's in the shadows, and she loves a woman who doesn't show fear.

*

At the beginning of the story, Anthea isn't born Anthea, No Last Name. Instead, she's born someone else in Brighton, where her mother is a teacher and her father sells software. She goes through college easily and without any noticeable glitch, graduates first of her class with a degree in molecular physics and then goes on to get one in advanced psychology. She gets engaged, breaks it off.

She still isn't Anthea when she meets Mycroft Holmes. She introduces herself as Marie Norton, and he's kind enough not to recite her alias's credentials along with her. He listens to her quietly, his hands folded over his knees.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," he says when she's finished. She leaves with a curt nod instead of a thank you. As a man who favours silence as a general occupation, he probably appreciates it.

When John Watson asks her what her name is, staring rather obviously at her nylon-clad thighs, she says, "Anthea."

When she wakes up in Irene Adler's living room, tied to a chair, she only hesitates a millisecond before saying the same thing.

*

So, at the beginning of the story, Anthea comes to her senses in a tastefully decorated room, to the sound of Handel's _Messiah_.

"Good morning, Beatrice," says Irene. She tilts her head to the side. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Anthea grinds her teeth. She takes a moment to assess her situation: there's no hope of getting out of the chair, and the drugs probably made her weak enough that she wouldn't get far even if she did. Besides, she really wants that cup of tea.

She nods. Irene smiles. "All right, then," she says, and briefly disappears into the kitchen. 

Anthea takes advantage of the reprieve to inspect the room. Two windows, both facing North. Kitchen one way, another door at the other side of the room. Her right hand is handcuffed to the chair and she's tied to it with industrial rope, probably as an additional precaution. Her bag, which contains no less than five different weapons, is of course gone, as are her Blackberry and her shoes.

"I do apologize about the shoes," Irene says as she walks back into the room. She's carrying a tray loaded with delicate china, two cups and a teapot. "Can't be too careful, I'm afraid."

She takes a sip of her tea. Her nails are a startling red against the porcelain. "But I'm being a bad host, I apologise." She raises the cup to Anthea's lips, smirking. "Most dreadfully sorry it should come to this.”

Anthea works with Mycroft Holmes every day, and with Sherlock Holmes more often than she would wish. She's used to embarrassingly large egos. Over the years, she's learnt than the best thing to do is to lay low and try to do her job as efficiently as possible.

"Thank you," she says, careful not to let any revealing intonation slip in her voice. She takes a sip. The tea is unsurprisingly good, and the warmth of it sliding in Anthea's throat feels like heaven.

Irene lets her drink her fill. When she's finished, she sets the cup back on the tray where it chinks satisfyingly.

"So, Beatrice," she starts. Anthea very nearly gives her a reaction, but in the end she restrains herself. It's a thing she's very good at.

Irene smiles. "Good girl," she says between her teeth. Anthea wrote the file - she knows who Irene is and what she does. She isn't impressed, nor is she disdainful. She works for Mycroft Holmes. Not a lot of things surprise her.

Irene takes another sip of her tea, and offers it to Anthea in turn, careful to present her the exact mark of her lipstick. Anthea drinks. "So, Beatrice," Irene says, "why don't you tell me your story?"

*

In the beginning of this story, Irene Adler, born in Jersey in 1984, loves stories. Her favourite when she was a child was the story of Melusine, the dragon-girl.

Even now, when she slinks away from scandals, when she slips a pair of sunglasses on, when she is in a new city, glittering and full, she likes to imagine her scales gleaming as she gets out of the bath.

And we all know the best stories are about girls. Irene can't say she expected it from the girl with the Blackberry, but upon closer inspection, she seems like an interesting character.

*

Anthea doesn't say anything. She's learned from Mycroft that everything about a person is revealing of who they are, and Irene – rumoured to be one of Sherlock's only worthwhile adversaries – already has her bag. And well, her, at least in the sense that Anthea’s tied to a chair in her living room.

Irene doesn't seem too disappointed by the lack of response. "That was to be expected," she says after half an hour of silence. "I just need to pop out for a bit." 

She smacks her lips together to even out her lipstick, reaching behind her to grab a black leather crop and a gun on the desk. 

"Right," she says to herself. She pats Anthea's face with a gloved hand. "I'll be back in a jiff.”

There's the ghost pressure of her lips on Anthea's cheek, and then she's gone.

*

Anthea doesn't know what Irene Adler is doing, but if she thinks that Anthea isn't going to try to escape while she's at it, she's sorely mistaken. Now that she's alone, it takes her less than twenty minutes to get the cuffs off, and then the ropes are a cakewalk. Irene isn't the only one who has a history with bondage.

Maybe she should've done a little more research, Anthea thinks, and can't help but smile. She would be vexed that so many people underestimate her, but it actually works in her favour most of the time. 

The escape is almost perfect: Anthea is reaching into her bag to retrieve her beloved Blackberry (God, she doesn't even want to _think_ about the number of texts from Mycroft) when Irene comes back.

"Honey, I'm home!" she shouts from the hall. Anthea has mapped the entire house in her head based on what she's seen or guessed while Irene was gloating; she probably has twenty seconds or less before she walks into the room. Not enough time to get back in the chair in her original state, and not enough time to go through the window. Especially since they're on the second floor. Shit.

She grabs a gilded letter-opener on Irene's desk. Indian, 1940s, from the National Museum of the American Indian, she registers absently.

The brief surprise that flashes on Irene's face as she walks into the room before she schools her face back into its usual smirking indifference is almost worth all the trouble.

"Now, now," she says, reaching into her handbag. The gun, Anthea thinks. Double shit. "No need to get violent."

She draws her hand out. It's not the gun - it's a pack of slims and a silver lighter. Anthea almost expects her to add a cigarette-holder to the mix, but she just lights the cigarette. 

"Are you quite finished?" Irene asks, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth.

Anthea uses the time to try and calculate her chances of actually doing anything useful with the knife, but it really _is_ beautiful, and she probably wouldn't even injure Irene, especially now that she doesn't have the element of surprise working for her.

"I love that knife, and it took forever to steal. Americans and their stupid paranoia," Irene says. "Do be careful, please, darling."

Anthea grits her teeth. She's backed into a corner now - she can't do much with what she has. Bloody Sherlock Holmes would probably know what to do. That being said, Anthea doesn't really like killing people. She knows _how_ to, of course, it's a job requirement, but it's never been one of her favourite aspects of being Mycroft Holmes’ secretary.

She sets the knife back on the desk, well within reach in case Irene makes an imprudent move.

"That's better.” Irene tilts her head consideringly. "You're something special, aren't you?" she says, sounding surprised. Anthea feels like she's revealed a secret card.

She wants to ask, guess, deduct, but before she can do anything there's bunched fabric against her nostrils. She recognizes the acrid scent of chloroform as she breathes it in.

*

Anthea wakes up in a bed. All in all, that's already a major relief - she doesn't think Irene's the type to lock people in cells in obscure hideouts with nothing but stale bread and water, but you never know.

She takes a quick look around the room. The windows are closed and the blinds drawn. The room itself is about bare - there's a dresser, a full-length mirror. At the foot of the bed are a pile of folded clothes, and resting atop them, Anthea's phone.

She grabs for it out of instinct, but as she turns it on, it occurs to her that if Irene put it here, it's probably useless.

She's checking if there's a way around the ban on any incoming or outgoing calls and texts (presumably except Irene, since she bothered to give it back to Anthea - unless she's only done it to taunt her, of course) when it pings with a text.

 _Let's have dinner,_ it says.

Anthea cringes.

*

The clothes on the bed turn out to be a rather simple if outrageously expensive dress (Anthea can recognize Chanel when she's put in front of it, thank you) and the necessary undergarments. They fit Anthea perfectly, but that's not a surprise. In the end, it's more low-key than Anthea would have expected, and she's almost grateful to Irene for it. She would have preferred a pantsuit, of course, but coming from Irene, she almost expected flaming red and a bare back.

She puts them on quickly, checks one last time for possible exits. She's just finished her survey (and discovered nothing conclusive, which is mildly worrying, though expected) when the phone pings again.

_First floor, dining room. Black tie._

Anthea almost smiles.

She has no trouble finding the room. They appear to be in a manor or something of the sort (as though Anthea didn't have enough manors with Mycroft), but when Anthea looks out the window, the only thing she sees is sodden countryside stretching out in the horizon. It looks like they’re in the middle of nowhere; trying to escape now would probably amount to little else than a soiled dress and a severe cold.

Irene is sitting in an armchair near the fireplace with her back to Anthea when she comes in.

"How do you like the place?" she asks without turning.

"It's fine," Anthea says. It's the first thing she was taught: neutral is the best way not to reveal anything about yourself. Play along if you feel impassibility may provoke your adversary, but don't get upset under any circumstance. Sherlock clearly hasn't learned that lesson.

Irene stands up, chuckling. "It's a little more than fine, I think," she says, waving a lazy hand towards the big, impressive wooden table. 

Anthea has never been one for antique charm - she's been to Versailles once and got bored around the fifteenth chandelier. She makes a gesture between a shrug and a nod.

The smile stays put on Irene's face, curled like an adder at the corner of her mouth. "Do sit down," she says, waving at one of the chairs.

Anthea does. The dress rustles when she crosses her legs, and she misses the familiar weight of the gun against her thigh, the phone in her pocket. You don't realize how much you're armed until you're stripped of everything.

"The dress suits you," Irene says. She's the master of the conversation, Anthea notices, already classifying the recurring expressions on Irene's face for later. She doesn't need to rile Irene up when she's stuck with her in a manor in the middle of nowhere, with literally nothing except her bones and a dress provided by her captor.

"Thank you," she says, bowing her head a little. It doesn't mean she's an inferior, and she hopes it doesn't translate that way. It means respect, that's all. Anthea is smart enough to recognize that Irene is a mastermind thief and manipulator. For having met Sherlock Holmes, she knows how hard it is to beat him, and she can admire those who do.

"You're not very chatty, are you?" Irene asks.

Anthea can't really say _I don't want to provide you with unnecessary information you could use against me_ , so she shrugs again. Irene smiles, but it’s a little more clipped, somewhere between annoyance and accepting the challenge. Anthea isn't entirely sure it's a good thing.

"Right," Irene says. "You must be hungry. Let's move to the dining table, shall we?"

Anthea nods. She follows Irene's unspoken instructions and sits next to her, barely a few inches away but not close enough to touch. Anthea takes a brief second to wonder if Irene wants to have her close so she can't escape or because she wants to gloat over her victory. She and Sherlock really are a match.

The table has been laid out with food while they were talking in the living room. Anthea digs into it without much enthusiasm, but eats enough to keep up her body strength in case she needs to make her escape by force. Mycroft must have noticed her absence by now, anyway; that'll be why Irene moved them to the country. He's probably doing the necessary groundwork. Anthea gives Irene approximately forty-eight hours, maybe fifty-four if she's in good shape.

"Why did you kidnap me?" she asks. She bites her lip immediately after, because direct questions, whatever the telly says, are _not_ the good way to obtain information from criminals. But Irene just gives her a tilt of her head and takes a sip of wine.

"Just needed to keep Mycroft at bay while I take care of a few things," she says. Anthea ponders, idly, that if criminals were less full of themselves they would probably be more successful in their various enterprises. Sherlock, too, but he has John.

"By 'I', I assume you mean you and Moriarty?" Now that she's started, she’d better finish. Anthea doesn't think it's Moriarty, but the association triggered by the name is the one she's aiming for: dangerous, psychopathic accomplice. Irene is a consummate professional, so she doesn't give an inch, but Anthea figures it was worth a shot.

"Not exactly," Irene says. "But enough dull work talk." She rests her elbows against the table. She's wearing a dress, too. It fits her regular style: black lace with a deep V-cut, clinging to the porcelain skin of her arms. "Tell me about yourself."

"I got the impression you already know all there is to know," Anthea answers dryly. She's got free reign over her movements, at least for now – if she can get to the power generator, she can probably figure something out.

"It's the human side of the story I'm interested in, really," Irene says, looking somewhere beyond Anthea. Her eyes focus back on her, too quickly. "How did you end up working for Mycroft?"

Anthea doesn't say anything. She doubts Irene will come to torture, not because she's not capable of it but because she would probably think it vulgar, at least in this situation. (Dimly, Anthea thinks of the Countess of Cagliostro.) Should it happen anyway, Anthea has been trained for it.

Irene looks unsurprised but disappointed all the same. She sighs. "I do think I prefer Sherlock to Mycroft," she muses. "I don't know, I guess he's more... well. He's funnier. You know how it is, in this line of work we're all chasing after the old adrenalin. Cliché, really, but it's true. Nothing quite compares."

Anthea nods and eats her dinner. 

The first night, Anthea tries to leave the bedroom. But the door is locked, and when Anthea tries to pick it, it's foolproof, probably an industrial lock. She swears between her teeth. She isn't afraid, but being imprisoned gets boring fast, regardless of how attractive the kidnapper is.

Irene talks more about Sherlock the second day. She disappears for a few hours, between ten and one, presumably to help her accomplice with her mysterious plan (Anthea doesn't waste too much time thinking about it. They probably plan to bring down England or something like that, but Mycroft and Sherlock aren't imprisoned and she trusts them to take care of it). Anthea searches the house for anything useful in a hypothetical escape, but of course there's nothing, not even the power generator she was counting on.

Irene is at the manor every night and asks Anthea down for dinner. The food is delicious, the dresses are exquisite and Anthea is getting so bored she's afraid she's going to say too much at any moment, be it only to tell Irene to stop calling her Beatrice. Yes, it's her real name; no, she doesn't want to be called by it. God fucking damn it, does the fact that she had it changed on her ID mean nothing? For someone who professionally manipulates people's darkest secrets, Irene's pretty shit at respecting them.

"So," Irene says one night, smirking outright. Her afternoon dealings must have gone well; she's wearing her darkest shade of lipstick, a deep purple that makes her look half-corpse, half-Egyptian queen. "Darling Mycroft doesn't seem so eager to take you back, does he?"

Anthea shouldn't bristle, but she's been here for seven days. She does. She sets her fork down so she doesn't hurt herself when her hand curls into a fist. "Says the woman who's still hung up on Sherlock Holmes," she says calmly, keeping the snarl barraged against her teeth.

Irene looks delighted. "Oh, she's talking! Tell me, Beatrice -"

"Don't call me Beatrice," Anthea snaps, and resists the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth. Now that she's started, the words won’t stay inside.

"Why?" Irene asks. She's drumming her nails against the table, and Anthea wonders if that means she's nervous. Does Irene Adler even _get_ nervous? "It's your name."

"I changed it," Anthea says.

Irene nods. "Fair enough.”

"Is Irene Adler your real name?" Anthea asks. She doesn't have a lot to lose, now.

Irene smiles. "Now, don't be greedy, you know I can't tell you that until I plan on killing you. Which, you'll be relieved to know, I don't."

Anthea doesn't react. She doesn't need Irene to tell her: if she'd planned on killing Anthea, she'd have already done it by now. Besides, Irene Adler is a thief, not a murderer. Anthea is pretty sure she only kills when it's absolutely necessary.

"You're clever," Irene says. "Why do you work for Mycroft? Why do you pretend to be a secretary?"

"I'm not a secretary," Anthea corrects. It's actually not her job title. She does do a lot of things that would classify her as a secretary, but also a wide range of other things that would get a secretary arrested.

"Glorified, then," Irene says, waving Anthea's denial away. "Why do you stay? You could do great on your own. Better, even. Without all those men getting their ego into everything." Anthea finds it a little rich coming from her. "Do you stay because of Mycroft?"

 _You're the one who's obsessed with them,_ Anthea wants to say. _You're the one who does everything thinking of them._

"No," she answers instead. "I made a choice."

"It was a long time ago," Irene says. Anthea feels peculiarly naked for a second, knowing that Irene is one of the only people, along with Mycroft and Sherlock (even though Sherlock probably didn't think twice about it), to have read her comprehensive file.

"It doesn't change anything," Anthea says. "I made a choice, and I'm holding by it." She cocks her head. "Isn't that what you did, too?"

Irene's face tightens, and for a second Anthea thinks she's going to reach into her bag and get the chloroform out (still the most effective way of ending a conversation you don't want to have; Anthea would know), but she doesn't.

"Maybe," she says instead, and reaches over to give Anthea's hand a minutely squeeze. "Good night, then."

Anthea bows her head. "Good night," she says.

She has trouble going back to sleep. She feels open; not in two, like a gate, but like a sea ready for the flood.

*

Anthea wouldn't say she warms up to Irene Adler, or even that she opens up. She does neither; she just allows herself the conversation. Irene has a remarkably good taste in books. Nothing to rival Mycroft and his palace-sized library, of course, but she has some Russian rarities even he probably wouldn't frown on. Anthea feels like her tongue is going to shrivel up and crumble from the lack of human interaction.

So she talks to Irene. She doesn't say much, merely responds to Irene's chatter most of the time, prompts her with the customary _yes_ and _um_ like she learned to. Sometimes, of course, Irene will ask her a direct question, her eyes boring into Anthea's, dark and focused. Anthea answers.

They talk about art, mostly. Politics are out of the question, money has always been a boring subject and sex is work for Irene. It doesn't leave much else. Irene is partial to modern art, loves colours that pop and slash through the canvas. It's both a scientific truth, she explains, and an emotional one. The truth of perception through colour, and at the same time... she waves a hand through the air. There are no paintings in the manor, which makes Anthea think Irene might have rented it only for the length of whatever she's plotting. From what she’s seen, Irene is a woman that tends to mark the space she inhabits.

Though Anthea isn't a tooth-and-nail defender of classical art herself, she admits that abstraction confuses her more often than not. She finds more beauty in the tangled lines of post-war painters, or even cubists, surrealists if she feels daring. Of course, she admires the technical abilities of the old masters, but she rallies with Irene in saying that the treatment of emotion isn't quite comparable to an Ingres or a Dali.

Literature and music also make their way to the rectangular table. Irene has the fire lit in the morning, before Anthea is allowed down; if she’s there she calls Anthea down around noon. She's stopped summoning her via mobile, and Anthea is grateful to her for it; it was ridiculous. Just because she's a prisoner doesn't mean she's completely uncivilized.

Irene asks her for personal details once in a while, slipping them more or less inconspicuously in conversations. Anthea is trained enough not to fall for it; most of the time she simply brushes it off, and Irene gives her a little smile, like she expected it but felt it was worth trying anyway.

Whenever Irene isn't there and Anthea isn't engrossed by a particular book, she organizes the data in her mind. She doesn't have much to go on, of course – Irene is just as excellently trained as she is – but the little she can scrap she makes sure to categorize scrupulously. Irene Adler: tall, black hair, slim with sharp features. Mole at the left of her neck. From the medication Anthea occasionally saw her take, she doesn't frown on taking both antidepressants and sleeping pills when needed.

Anthea doesn't have enough for a complete psychological profile, but she can brush the major lines broadly. Irene's obviously very sexually aware, with a narcissistic streak that doesn't seem to affect her success as a criminal, so it's probably not to the point of megalomania (thank god. Anthea has to deal with enough of those on a daily basis). Conscientious in her working relationships. Bit of OCD here and there, and the occasional depressive outburst. Really, she makes an amazing villain – and she likes that she does, too.

The dress code is probably more for show than anything else, though she does seem to like her black-and-red routine. Anthea carefully doesn't think about how much she'd like to witness her morning rituals.

Anthea makes it a point not to wonder what Irene would've been had she not been a criminal. This kind of train of thought never ends well, for one (she tried it a few times for herself and ended up wallowing in self-pity), and she's not even sure Irene would have been much better off in a more respectable profession. Her devious streak is one of the most interesting things about her – as Sherlock would say, she uses her intelligence in a way contrary to what he does (though Anthea tends to agree with Sally on this one; were Sherlock not Mycroft's brother, she would bet a lot of money on him being a criminal).

They don't talk about Sherlock and Mycroft anymore. Neither of them is the type to expound on things they have no control over, anyway. It's an arrangement: Irene isn't forced to reflect on the humiliation, and Anthea doesn't have to ask herself the question of why exactly she started working for Mycroft.

Their conversations can take the form passionate debates over the dinner table, but sometimes they're something else, gentler maybe. Irene whips out her clay teapot and they have a cup of tea on the east terrace, wrapped in soft cashmere blankets. They talk about the light in Caravaggio and the way it spills, Klimt's delicacy and Kandinsky's harshness in morning tones, hushed.

Once Anthea mentions loving Vermeer. Irene teases her for it, calls her tame, but Anthea explains that nothing means more while saying less than a Vermeer painting. 

"I don't know if you've ever seen one," she says, scooping a bite of strawberry charlotte. "It's different."

She should probably have expected the roar of the plane the next week, but she springs from the bed, hands crossing in front of her in her usual defence mechanism. Her eyes sweep over the room for anything she could use as a weapon.

"Don't look so alarmed," Irene says from where she's leaning against the doorjamb, looking supremely pleased with herself. "We're leaving in half an hour. Dress accordingly."

Even if she wanted to obey that order, it's not like Anthea could, given that Irene is the one who supplies her with all of her clothes. She quickly gets over the surprise and slips the suit on. The cleavage is a little deeper than she's comfortable with, but she trusts Irene not to take her anywhere with too many people. She's supposed to be her captive, after all, even though Irene seems to see her as more of a houseguest.

The plane is in the back garden, the cold sunlight beaming off its metallized grey belly. Anthea had noticed that there was a landing strip (the concrete is kind of hard to miss in the middle of the field) but she has to admit that this is a bit overwhelming, even for her. Irene smiles at her like she's reading her mind.

"Come on.”

She makes a gesture to one of the people standing on the lane and stairs are lowered. The propeller is blowing air in their faces, tangling Anthea’s hair.

Anthea shakes out the disbelief and follows suit when Irene gets in the plane, the heels of her Louboutins clicking.

"Well," she says when she gets inside. She takes a quick look around. Typical private jet furniture, she notes: cream-coloured seats, precise tables and even a bottle of champagne.

"After you," Irene says gallantly. 

Anthea settles in one of the seats. It's indecently comfortable, but then again, Anthea works for Mycroft Holmes; it's not like she's never seen the inside of a private jet before. Once she's past the surprise of being allowed to leave the manor, and the confusion as to where Irene is taking her has settled into a quiet buzz at the back of her mind, this is all quite common. A regular day at work.

Irene seems to have given up on impressing her since the fiasco of the first day (Anthea hasn't told her because she's nothing if not polite, but she's personally sure that the vast majority of people that have just been kidnapped do not have complimenting their kidnapper's furniture very high on their list of priorities) but she watches carefully what Anthea allows to show.

"Champagne?" she asks.

Anthea tilts her head yes, making herself comfortable in her seat. The engine roars beneath them and the plane takes off smoothly.

There's a ribbon tied around the bottle’s neck, with a message. Anthea doesn't ask before she takes a hold of it (it's probably living with Irene that’s making her that impulsive) but Irene doesn't bat her hand away, just relaxes in her seat, arranging the cushions behind her back.

 _Compliments to you and the new missus. JM._ Anthea reads. She gives a short laugh.

"Who's it from?" Irene asks.

Anthea hands her the card. "Moriarty. You're still doing business with him?" she asks casually, pouring them both flutes.

"This bastard," Irene laughs when she reads the card, carefully not answering the question. Anthea doesn't mind - it's not like she was expecting her to answer, but a girl can try, right?

"Thanks," Irene says when Anthea hands her the cup.

Anthea hums. "Where are we going?" she asks.

"You'll see," Irene says. She glances out window, her eyes wistful for a moment, so brief Anthea probably wouldn't have seen it if she wasn't working for one of the most secretive men in Britain. "Tell me," Irene says, focusing her attention back on Anthea, "why don't you like being called Beatrice? It's a beautiful name."

Anthea shrugs. "Family stuff."

Irene lets out a little sigh, the smile still sticking to the corner of her mouth. "Of course."

The truth is too complex and sentimental to explain. Anthea’s job is to listen and to deduct, rarely to tell stories. Sometimes she even envies Sherlock for being able to stand like Poirot in the middle of a room full of guilty people and pass as the hero and the madman as he rolls out his theories under John's endlessly admiring gaze. It doesn't last.

"It's real, you know," Irene says out of the blue. It breaks the silence neatly.

Anthea takes a sip of champagne to hide her confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Irene. It's my real name." She looks down at her nails then back up again. "It won't tell you a lot, anyway. I tend to clean up after myself pretty thoroughly." A beat. "Just thought you'd like to know."

It's one of those strange moments charged with electricity that Anthea never knows what to do with. She doesn't think anything about her invites to confession, she isn't motherly and she's far from gentle, but for some reason people always seem to feel forced to confide in her. She takes it. It's information either way.

(There was one night, on the fifth year of her working with Mycroft. It was late, she'd finished all her work and she was ready to go home. Usually she'd leave a note for Mycroft not to bother him and slip out or sleep in the guest room, but that night she had controversial information about the Greek prime minister that he needed to see.

There was still light streaming from under the door. She knocked. "Mister Holmes?"

"Come in," he said.

She did. He was sitting at his desk, his elbows rested on the cherry wood, a glass of bourbon in front of him, probably Jim Beam.

"Is everything alright, sir?" she asked, waiting for him to say yes and ask her to proceed with the information. He didn't.

"Sit down," he said instead, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. She obeyed, her hands folded on her knees, slipped her Blackberry back in her pocket. "Have you ever been married, Anthea?"

She debated telling him about the engagement debacle, but it was neither the time nor the place. "No, sir."

He wasn't looking at her, she realized when he looked up. He was looking somewhere beyond her, beyond the door, beyond the house. Reminiscing. She felt grateful that she wasn't old enough to have regrets that deep.

"Is everything alright, sir?" she asked again. She knew it wasn't; now she wonders if she was just grasping at straws to try and get out of the conversation or if it was something else, maybe genuine worry.

He wasn't drunk. His glass was empty in his hands but she knew he wasn't drunk because he never got drunk. It said so in his files. He'd had an alcohol addiction problem in the nineties and he was now restricted to a very strict regime of two glasses a day maximum. He only drank bourbon; said drinking like that did more good to him that abstaining completely ever could have.

"I got married once," he said. "Women are always very young when you marry them, did you know that, Anthea?"

His eyes were still sharp. She nodded.

He made a dismissive gesture with his wrist. The bourbon shook in the glass. "It didn't work out, of course."

There was a moment of silence. He sagged a little in his chair for a fraction of second; and then he was back to being Mycroft Holmes, the man who occupied a minor position into the government – his favourite lie.

"What did you want to tell me?" he asked. She wondered if he might make her sign a confidentiality agreement, but he didn't, just brushed the subject aside and pretended that it had never happened. Always the best course of action.)

Irene is watching her like she’s expecting a reaction. Anthea browses through the possibilities; nothing seems to fit.

"Alright," she says eventually.

It's awkward for a moment, and then they get talking about the respective merits of Alessandro Barrico and Oscar Wilde and it all feels normal again, at least as normal as a criminal and the woman she kidnapped going on a trip in a private jet can ever be. Anthea waxes poetic over Oscar Wilde, gets a little tipsy on champagne and doesn't even mind the amused glint in Irene's eyes.

"Why are we going to America?" she asks, cutting Irene in her tirade about the new promising European authors and why they deserve more exposure.

"I told you, it's a surprise!" She sounds way too excited about it for it to be torture, at least, Anthea thinks.

It doesn't stay a surprise for long; soon enough they're touching down in what Anthea thinks is still the East Coast. She wouldn't bet on it, though – she might be the wonder secretary, but orientation isn't one of her major skills.

"We're there," Irene says, glancing outside. She holds out a hand to Anthea, "Shall we?"

Anthea raises an eyebrow but takes the proffered hand. They don't touch a lot, maybe because Irene's job is all about touching and she doesn't want to take it home and maybe simply because the conversations they have don't require any physical contact. Irene hasn't put her gloves back on; the glide of her nails against Anthea's skin makes a sharp spark shoot in her palm. If Irene notices, she's gracious enough not to say anything.

Irene ushers her into a car. It looks to the last detail like a villain car, black and sleek with a silent driver that opens the door for them. Anthea gives Irene a mocking smile, but she just shrugs. 

It only takes a few minutes for Anthea to recognize the city as they drive through it. "We're in D.C.," she says. She has to admit she's a little confused as to what they're doing here, but she doesn't really mind – she likes Washington, it's a beautiful city.

"Yes."

"You're not planning on taking the president down, I hope?" Anthea says. She'd like for it to be a joke, but she isn't sure it completely is.

"This is a pleasure trip," Irene protests, pouting. Anthea reads the _I'm saving the political plotting for later_ on her face as easily as if she'd said it.

Eventually, the car pulls up in front of the National Gallery of Art. Irene opens the door for Anthea, and Anthea tilts her head in gratitude. They have a strange dynamic outside the house, but she finds she quite likes it – if the rest of the trip is this pleasant, it won't have been a complete waste of time.

She still considers making a run for it, but that's the National Gallery of Art in front of her. The people and the phones will still be there when they come out. Besides, she doesn't really feel like fighting off the three – admittedly very discreet – bodyguards strategically placed around them like a ghost escort.

"Let's go in, shall we?"

Anthea becomes more and more surprised as they walk closer to the Gallery. There's no one in front of the building, where there should be hundreds of tourists swarming and snapping at random pigeons with their over-priced cameras.

Irene glances at her. "Don't worry," she says, "I haven't robbed all of the paintings yet. The gallery opens later since we're Sunday, and they don't open until seven today, exceptionally." She smiles in a way that makes it clear that the exception isn’t a coincidence.

"What are we doing until -" Anthea starts.

"Don't be silly," Irene says. "You insult me, you do, Beatrice." Anthea doesn't even react; Irene is obviously teasing her, and Anthea is far too stoic to grace it with as much as an eyelash flutter.

It does make perfect sense, Anthea thinks when they reach the entrance and they're greeted by a man and a woman, both impeccably dressed and sporting appropriately serious expressions.

"Welcome, Miss Adler," the woman says. Irene looks briefly at Anthea, but being ignored is a big part of her job and it actually ends up being a convenience more often that it does an insult. Besides, she's not sure if she's comfortable with those people knowing her name, real or otherwise.

"The paintings are on the main floor," the man says, bowing his head the slightest bit.

The smile Irene gives him is shark-like and professional. "I know. Thank you ever so much, Mr Peters. We'll take it from here."

"Of course," he nods, and retreats, his head still bowed. The woman hesitates for a few seconds, but eventually follows him.

Irene doesn't move as she watches them walk all the way out. Anthea watches her sweep the entire room in a vast glance, assessing the ways out, the dangers and the valuables. She's probably already done a preliminary check, but Anthea has learned that it's a reflex for a thief, whether they're intending to steal something or not, to plan an exit solution and calculate how much they can steal and get away with. It would be admirable, if it wasn't criminal.

It only lasts a couple of seconds, though; soon enough the sharp clicking of the woman's heels on the floor fades in the distance and they're left in the gigantic hall, the silence bearing down on them.

"So," Anthea says, "why are we here?"

Irene grins at her. "Didn't you say you wanted me to see a real Vermeer? I thought you'd like to join."

Anthea can't really say she didn't expect this answer, because she did. It still takes her by surprise, though. She loves art, but her job is relatively high-pressure and she doesn't really have time to go gallivanting in museums like a female Arsène Lupin.

"Okay," she says, and even links her arm to Irene's when she offers. Irene must not have expected it because she stumbles a little, rocking back on her heels, but soon enough she finds her balance. What a sight they must make, Anthea thinks with unusual wistfulness. "Let's."

They go up to the ground floor in silence. Anthea still hasn't worked out if it's a privilege or a curse of working with dignitaries and criminals that everything always seems to be empty wherever they go. For Mycroft it's because he likes to pretend he's unimportant to then bask in the glow of his importance; it gives him the right to disdain those who believe his fake modesty and always end up underestimating him. If Anthea didn't know about his strict diet, she'd probably think his non-threatening appearance is on purpose too.

For Irene it's because she's a thief. It's really more of an occupational hazard, because it's easy to see she likes the occasional audience. But in everything she does, be it have sex or slip into deserted buildings to rob them, there's no place for either a companion or an admiring crowd. Anthea doesn't pity her. She has no time to waste, and you don't choose a career like that at random, anyway.

The clicking of their heels is off-beat for a couple of seconds before Irene adjusts their pace. Anthea lets her – symmetry is always as satisfying as it can be unnecessary, and there would be no point in refusing to let their shoes hit the marble floor in cadence.

She forgets all about that when they get to the painting. They bypass a lot of others, but Anthea doesn't look at them as much as she watches Irene admire, weigh, value. She only throws a quick glance to categorize them in her head, thinking she'll do a list when she's back with Mycroft and cross-reference it with recent stolen paintings. It's a pity; she'd really like to stop in front of each painting for half an hour and stay in awe of them, detail every brush of the paint, and it's unlikely that she'll get as good of an opportunity soon, but it's her job. That's what sacrifice means. It's been years now; she's used to it.

If Irene notices what she's doing she doesn't comment on it. Sometimes she makes a soft comment on one of the painting's features, but more often than not she lets it trail into silence, as though she'd been talking to herself. At least she really does like what she steals, Anthea thinks, but doesn't investigate the thought much further because she doesn't want to give Irene excuses. That's how the bad things always start.

But she can't look at Irene when they get to the Vermeer. It's more than stepping in front of a Pollock and forgetting dimension and space, more than the blinding admiration and the colors radiating out of the canvas. It's a soft gleam at the corner of your eye that pulls you in even if you're not looking, even if you're standing in front of another painting. It calls softly like a lover, unfurling long fingers to reel you in.

But the beauty of it, the real beauty of it, is that the woman isn't looking at you. You're the one who's looking when you're in front of the painting, you're the outsider looking in and she's alone in her room, counting the pearls in her little bronze balance. The light is peering from the window, the mirror gives off a soft reflection, she's looking down, focused. It's not a whorish painting, it doesn't shout out. That's what Anthea likes about it. The delicacy.

"What -" Irene starts, but Anthea interrupts her before she can continue, "Ssh."

Irene gives a soft laugh that melts to silence as soon as it's out of her throat.

Anthea isn't usually one to get emotional over art, but for a second she wonders why she never came to see this painting before. She _knows_ why: she didn't have time, her job is too demanding, going to the US just to see a painting would be ridiculous. But this is one of those moments when something you would in other circumstances consider over-the-top and even ludicrous becomes so clear, flawlessly easy to envision. She could have taken two days off when Mycroft was in Korea and left her in England to take care of the admin; he wouldn't even have noticed. Or she could've asked for a week off. He knows how much she works, he would've been okay with it.

Anthea doesn't reach out to touch the painting. She can't say she doesn't understand the urge to feel everything in the flesh, but it's more of a side effect of working near Sherlock Holmes, who has to sniff everything, to kneel in the mud and palp the dead bodies, and being kidnapped by Irene Adler, who makes everything sensual. She doesn't feel it. She can look, isn't it enough?

It takes a little time, but eventually the emotion ebbs back and she's left as empty as a shore after a high tide, still vaguely damp and cluttered with seaweed and chipped shells. Irene glances over at her to ask for the permission to talk and Anthea grants it with a nod. She's not stupid enough to fool herself into thinking that Irene asking means anything beyond gallantry, though.

"Did you know about the scales?" Irene asks, pointing a sharp nail at the painting.

"That they're empty? Yes," Anthea says. She actually read a lot about this painting. She got the interest from one of her psychology classes back in uni where they had to analyse works of art. She can't remember exactly what about it fascinated her at the time, but she does remember that it wasn't the same things that do now.

Irene hms. "I thought it was a _vanité_ , at first," she says.

"Everybody does."

"It really did seem fitting, with all those pearls... and I love _vanités_. They're my fauvorite type of classical paintings, I think," Irene says offhandedly. Even when she looks at her, Anthea can't decide if she gave that sliver of information on purpose or not.

She looks like she's waiting for something, but Anthea doesn't say it. She's not a complete cliché, thank you. Instead, she arches an eyebrow at Irene. Irene smiles back.

They do move past the painting eventually, though not without Anthea making Irene promise that they'll walk past it again when they leave. Irene's eyes brush lazily over the pale landscapes and the long green seas; they infuse in Anthea a false sense of security. She would even go as far as call it peace. The French amuse them and they stare at the intricate pleating and frills on the aristocrats’s heavy dresses with curiosity, trying and failing to see the trace of the brush. If they were less discreet women, there would probably be ohs and ahs at the delicate Watteaus that shine elegantly on the walls; they stop for a minute in front of the _Shipwreck_ , but the pervading dread is too strong for them to stay. Anthea feels like the purple skies, torn by a hefty streak of lightning, are trying to pull her in.

But what really catches Irene's attention are the American paintings. She tells Anthea about it, how they're so much more raw, even Mary Cassat.

"There's a fierceness in her," she says, pointing to the _Little Girl in a Blue Armchair_ , "that's admirable. Don't you think?"

Anthea tilts her head. She'd like to say she sees it but if she does, it's with Irene's eyes, not her own. "Not really," she says, careful not to sound apologetic.

Irene waves a vague hand. "It doesn't matter," she says.

When they move to the next room she points to another painting, _Nonchaloir_. The woman has thick black hair and is holding a shawl to her chest, soft, silky blue. High chin.

"She looks like you," Anthea says, for a reason she doesn't know and doesn't want to investigate.

Irene chuckles. "Oh, well," she says. "But it's a fake."

"Is it?"

Irene glances at her, a little reproving, _don't you see?_ It's like she's waiting for Anthea to get the joke, but for once, Anthea doesn't want to try and get it. Irene can spell it out.

"The original used to be in my office," she says eventually, when it becomes clear that Anthea won't play the guessing game. "I offered it to a lover. A keepsake, I guess you could say.”

Her gaze is unfocused and she takes in a breath, as though trying to regain her bearings. Anthea wouldn't have pegged her for a woman to get nostalgic over old lovers. Being wrong irritates her.

"Is that something you do often?" she asks, to distract herself. "Steal paintings for when you break up with people?"

Irene bristles a little at the formulation. "It's not like that, darling, you know that," she says airily. "Anyway. Do you know how you tell that a painting is fake?"

Anthea gives her a look, _I'm humouring you_. Sometimes the line gets thin and she wonders if she's the one humouring or the one being humoured, but she likes to pretend that she still controls at least that. She can't say she's taking being deprived of control all that well.

"There are no goggles or looking glasses, or even recognizing the painter's _coup de pinceau_ ," she says. "It's about something else. A specialist can tell you if a painting is fake from ten feet away. It's all about knowing the painter."

She rests her hip against the wall, her cheek on the paper, near the frame. "I had this friend, he was a specialist of Kandinsky. Well, I say friend... One day this painting surfaces, it's a new Kandinsky, it's been discovered in some Russian farmer's attic. Everyone wants to ask him what he thinks, wants him to test the painting. He asked the people who'd discovered it one question, just one." She's a good storyteller. "He asked them, 'What is the date?' '1942,' the guy answers, and my friend tells him, 'No.' He didn't even go to see the painting. He already knew it was fake."

She wets her lips. The red is dialed a tone down, and for some reason Anthea feels better, as though there is more air in the room. "He told me why, after. He said to me, 'Kandinsky couldn't have painted another piece in 1942. In 1937, maybe, there was room during that year, but he was so busy in 1942, he never could've painted something else.' And that was all. That was how he knew the painting was fake. Because he knew Kandinsky so well it was as though he'd slept in his spare room during all these years, he knew everywhere he'd been, every one of his travels, hell, I’m not sure he didn't know what the poor guy ate every day." She takes a breath, grins. "It's a good story, isn't it?"

She lets herself slide to the floor. Anthea admires her for making it look so effortlessly elegant. "Come sit with me," she says, patting the floor next to her.

Anthea obeys. She leans her back against the wall, exhaling a sigh. Her education makes her want to say thank you to Irene for bringing her there, but she doesn't. It's always the first step, isn't it? Thanking a thief.

"She really does look like me, doesn't she?" Irene says, sounding amused by her own narcissism. "It probably was a little bit cruel."

Anthea hms.

"Did someone ever steal a painting for you?" Irene asks. For a second, Anthea wonders if she wasn't going to ask that herself and if Irene's question isn't just a precaution.

"No," she says. She isn't sure it's a big regret of hers.

Something else is happening outside of her, though; Irene is looking at her with strong black eyes, detailing her features. Anthea wonders if she's weighing her against the perfect features of the paintings. Does she even compare? She always had a cleanly proportioned body – symmetry's gift to her – but she's well-placed to know that isn't enough to make a successful painting.

"They should've," Irene says in a whisper.

A lazy spark crackles between them, silk brushing on skin. The floor under Anthea’s calves is pleasantly warm, golden with gloss. For a moment she’s afraid of what might happen, maybe – but nothing does.

They stay like that for a few minutes, looking at each other, afraid to tear their eyes away.

"We should go," Anthea says eventually. She can see the sun dawning through the big windows, and the corporate reflex forces her to push up on her knees and stand up. Lazing after sunrise is something she hasn't done in years, and starting now would just allow for more straying out of the path. 

"We have all the time in the world," Irene says, as though she could read her thoughts, but she stands up all the same.

Irene stays true to her promise and they walk by the Vermeer again. Anthea lags behind a little to admire it once more. What do you think about when you're weighing souls? she wonders; and what would Vermeer have thought of the world taking his divine judge for a prideful woman? Maybe that's what he wanted. Does she really never wear those pearls, never look at herself in the mirror? Does she see her reflection in the painting next to her?

"Come on," Irene says from the next room, gently mocking, in a tone that says _you won't be able to read it all today_ , like Anthea is a glutton child trying to finish her book before the lights are flicked off.

The car is waiting for them when they walk out, as are the man and woman. Irene thanks them courteously and gives them leave, handing the man a briefcase Anthea deducts contains whatever she bargained to be able to have the museum empty for the day. The woman thanks her over-zealously. Irene nods.

They ride back to the landing strip. The windows are shut and tinted, so Anthea isn't able to see where it is, but from the time it takes and the hints she picked up from the location when they landed she'd say they're East of the city, somewhere that used to be an industrial zone. Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one who can pick clues from mud under people’s shoes – or heels, as it happens.

The flight back is considerably more silent. They discuss the paintings they saw and though Anthea even lets her gratitude show once or twice, Irene doesn’t ask for a direct thank you; Anthea probably wouldn't have given it to her, anyway. When the conversation dies down Irene gets the book Anthea had been reading out of her bag and hands it to her. She also has one for herself; they settle into their seats and read for the rest of the flight, only stopping to eat when the stewardess brings them food that’s exponentially better than the usual plane dinners, even in business class.

Anthea has seen the sky change colours over the ocean enough times to still be amazed by it in a quiet, aching way. When they get to the manor it's a little before midnight, so the jetlag doesn't feel that important. They're both still tired, though – even the usually impeccable Irene looks exhausted, her eyelids drooping and her beautiful hair mussed by the plane ride.

"Well then," Anthea says when they make it to the living-room. 

She spares a look for the grandfather figure in the painting above the fireplace and wonders if it's a master instead of the portrait of a distant ancestor of whoever owned the house before Irene like Anthea thought. She thinks she would've noticed, but who knows? Maybe its one of those paintings that were stolen ages ago and always travel between thieving hands, one of those prizes that are like an exam you have to pass to prove how good you are. Maybe nobody's managed to steal it from Irene yet. God, the exhaustion is making her melodramatic.

"Good night," Irene says; and in a surprising gesture she takes Anthea's hand and brings it to her lips. Anthea takes a second to be concerned about her rings before remembering that she doesn't wear any.

"Good night," she answers. She walks to the stairs and doesn't look back, trying and failing to compartmentalize the feeling of Irene's warm lips on her skin.

*

The morning after is different. Everything feels slower; Anthea wonders how much longer she's going to have to wait until Mycroft rescues her or Irene's plan comes to fruition and she can release her. She doesn't know a lot, so it's unlikely that Irene’ll kill her, but that's always a possibility, too.

Her door is unlocked at nine, like every morning, but there's no one in the kitchen when she goes to get breakfast. At least she's not being held in horrible conditions, she reflects – it could certainly be worse.

Irene gave her books so she can keep busy during the day, and Anthea keeps her mind in shape by doing situation plans and mind games when she feels up to it. She also holds a diary to keep track of the time that passes and of Irene's movements. She’s hopeful she can determine a certain sort of pattern after a while, if this goes on.

There's a thud by the door at noon. It doesn't sound like a gunshot, more like the door slamming or something being knocked over, but you're never too careful, and Anthea really doesn't plan on being killed by an erring bullet any time soon. Maybe it’s a burglar. She makes her way to the kitchen, holding her hands in front of her chest in a defense position, ready to fight if someone attacks her.

What she sees instead is Irene and... is that Kate Middleton? kissing in the hallway. It's kind of a shock.

Anthea can't help making a small, surprised noise but doesn't move, rooted on the spot. Irene's right hand makes its way to Kate's waist before she pulls away, the other braced against the wall. She observes Anthea through heavy-lidded eyes, keeping Kate's hair tight in her hand. She pulls. Kate doesn't wince.

"Oh, you're here," Irene says to Anthea, matter-of-factly. Suddenly it’s clear: she planned it – why, Anthea couldn't tell, but she did.

"Sorry," Anthea says, but she doesn't move.

Kate makes a small, worried noise. "Is she going to say something? Should we..."

Irene pulls her hair again and Kate stops talking; closes her eyes, moans. "It'll be fine," Irene says cooly, tracing a finger along the sinews on Kate's throat. "She won't talk."

It's her cue for dismissal, and Anthea's legs seem to be working again, so she takes her leave, almost running down the corridor. She doesn't know why she's so upset. She knew about Irene's occupation; the only things she didn't know were the exact list of her new clients or that she would bring them here, and even that she could’ve guessed. 

As soon as she's in her room, she berates herself for being so emotional. Irene is a professional, this is her job; it might not be what Anthea's used to, it's still not even close to the the strangest thing she's ever seen. Besides, the walls are soundproof and Irene's room, from what Anthea's figured out and explored about the house, is in another wing. They probably won't bother her.

She comes back down to pick up her book that she'd forgotten in her haste. Something calls to her as she walks past the entrance hall, a distant gleam she isn't used to. She goes to take a look, and can't believe her luck.

It probably slipped out of Kate's pocket when she and Irene were kissing – well, groping would be a more appropriate term. Anthea doesn't lose time in picking it up. There _is_ network, despite the remote location. There's a pin protection, but it only takes a bit of fiddling and racking her memory for the confidential files on Kate and those on Irene Anthea read when Sherlock and her were flirting before she figures it out. She doesn't call Mycroft immediately, though; she's been here for more than a month, she can wait a little.

Instead she hacks the GPS and sends a track to Mycroft's phone. It's less intrusive than a phone call, and this way there's no risk the noise will alert Irene.

She texts a quick message to his private number to go with the GPS trace. _Have been kidnapped by IA. Expecting rescue. Regards, Anthea._

She doesn't want to sound curt or anything, but she's been there for more than a month. If she was the type, she probably would be offended. Actually, scrap that, she _is_ a little offended. She's a great secretary and an even better assistant, she doesn't think she deserves to be stuck in Irene Adler's house for a whole month, National Gallery or not.

There's nothing to do but wait after that, so Anthea picks up her book and starts reading, trying not to think about what Irene and Kate might be up to. Does Irene play the dominatrix when she's having sex for pleasure? she wonders idly, but wills away the thought. It's not hers to think about – Irene might be a criminal, but her private life is still private, and it's none of Anthea's business.

She hears the door slamming again about an hour later. The rescue party still isn't here. Kate leaving now seems a bit early but then, Anthea really has no idea as to what time Irene's 'sessions' might take. She hears frantic running, which doesn't sound like Irene, but this time she doesn't bother investigating it. Now that she knows that she's going to be rescued, she can afford a little break from worrying. Especially knowing she'll be back to work tomorrow, god.

It takes another twenty minutes for Irene to barge in her room, wearing coat, sunglasses and her customary red heels. She smiles when she sees Anthea in the chair, the book open on her knees.

"Beatrice," she says. "You've called friends to the party, haven't you?" Irene says, gently chiding. "I thought it was just the two of us."

Anthea evaluates her chances to immobilize her in a flash. She hadn't thought Irene would cotton up to her plan so fast, but now that she has, maybe Anthea can kill two birds with one stone. Just because Mycroft is being a lousy employer doesn't mean she has to be a lousy employee.

She jumps. Irene whips out a gun.

"You know I like you," she says, pointing the canon to Anthea's forehead, "but that doesn't mean I want to go to the corner. You see, Beatrice, us thieves love freedom. It's our biggest sin."

Anthea should be searching for ways to overpower her, but she finds herself listening instead. The scene oddly reminds her of the day Irene kidnapped her.

"The truth is," Irene starts; her wrist is limp and the barrel of the gun is drooping, slightly but Anthea knows that she's on her guard. "The truth is, my dear, I've kept you here a little bit more than necessary. I only wanted to make our darling Mycroft a bit jittery, keep him in check if you will, but it turned out you're quite charming when you put your mind to it. I hope you don’t mind."

Anthea would like to say she does, but for some reason she can't find it in herself. It's probably the signs of the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome. God, the psychologist sessions when she comes back to London are going to be so expensive.

"If I mind that you, a convicted criminal, kidnapped me and kept me from my life, job and friends for more than a month? No, of course, why would I mind," she eventually says. It comes out a little more sarcastic than she intended, but it's also approximately 80% dishonest, so it balances out.

Irene laughs like she knows Anthea doesn't mean it. Well – she probably does. "Never been convicted, actually," she says.

Anthea arches an eyebrow.

Irene clucks her tongue. "Well, apart from that time, but that was a minor incident. Anyway. It was an utter _pleasure_ ," she says, her voice dropping into the lower register, "Miss Hayworth." 

Anthea bristles.

"Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Before Anthea can even attempt to do something, Irene’s whipped a handkerchief out of her bag and pressed it against Anthea’s nose. Anthea tries to block her breath, but the panic makes her inhale and she can already feel the chloroform burning her sinuses.

"You..." she starts, but either she can't find a suitable insult or her faculties are already disabled.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, of course, you know that," she remotely hears Irene saying. "We keep having all those misadventures, I really ought to take you to dinner. Well, I did rent a museum for you..." She clears her throat. "Anyway, you understand that I couldn't risk you coming after me, don't you, darling? I'm sure you do."

The last thing Anthea sees before she passes out is the shape of Irene's face as she leans in. She feels the light pressure of her lips against the corner of her mouth, her nails grazing her cheek, and then the world is gone, wrapped in black.

*

She’s still groggy when one of Mycroft’s swanky Mercedes drops her at her flat. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Mycroft asks from the backseat of the car, his voice smooth and polite. 

“I’ll be fine,” Anthea says, and then, belatedly: “Thank you.”

He did come and get her, after all, even though he took his goddamned time to do it. It probably deserves a little gratefulness. 

“Don’t mention it,” Mycroft says. Anthea nods; she won’t. 

She doesn’t stay to watch the Mercedes depart in and melt into the roar of traffic. Instead she takes the elevator and goes straight up to her flat, mentally starting on the list of things she has to do. Mycroft probably spoke to her landlord already, but she’ll have to serve him an explanation tomorrow morning anyway. And she has to talk to Justine about what she missed at the office, the cat from next door that she feeds will probably be starved by now, mail must be piling on her doormat...

A hard shiver runs through her when she pushes the door. She blinks, trying to catch back her train of thought, but she feels all the tension from the last month uncoiling like a gigantic lash in her stomach. She sits down. Breathes out. _It’s okay. You’re okay._

She feels pathetic, talking to herself in her empty flat, so she stands up and busies herself with the heating. The sooner she gets into bed the better, anyway; she’s read enough psychology books during her degree to know that the trauma caused by this kind of situation can only be helped by settling back into a familiar rhythm. 

She undresses silently by the bed. Her bedroom feels familiar in a strange, remote way, like a childhood room; Anthea is almost expecting to see her old N’Sync poster peeking from the ajar door of her closet. She carefully doesn’t think about Irene, Mycroft or any the people involved in the kidnapping. She’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Right now she just needs to sleep.

It’s easier said than done, of course - when she slips between the sheets in only her underwear, her skin raised in gooseflesh, and lets out a breath, she suddenly feels fervently awake, like something in her can’t quite accept sleep. She waits for twenty minutes, trying to make sleep come, but eventually she’s smart enough to realize that it’s some kind of psychological barrier, so she gets out of bed and pads to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Her head is buzzing like a bee's nest.

It takes two mugs of tea and an unhealthy amount of honey to get her to feel even slightly drowsy. Anthea is a patient person, but this is too much even for her: she gulps down three sleeping pills and resigns herself to a blank, dreamless sleep. 

Mycroft gave her a week off but she comes into the office the next morning, wearing her trademark suit and heels. Various people throw her curious looks but they’re well-disciplined enough not to ask. 90% of what they do here is classified, anyway, and the odd kidnapping isn’t exactly out of the ordinary. 

She comes into Mycroft’s office at two past eight, an efficient smile carefully pasted to her lips. “Do you need anything, sir?”

He furrows his brows. “I told you not to come into work.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Mycroft sighs. “Are you, really?”

Anthea wonders what would be more appropriate between _fuck you, sir_ and _I’m not your fucking kid, sir_. “I really am, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, if you don’t have anything -”

“Sit down, Anthea.”

Anthea smiles blandly. “Of course, sir.”

She sits in the chair opposite his desk, legs folded.

“How was it?” Mycroft asks after a moment of silence, looking straight at her. 

She looks back. She won staring contests when she was five, she’s not going to fail now. “I’m compiling the research, sir, it’ll be on your desk by Monday.”

“Good,” he says. “You do know why we didn’t rescue you immediately, I trust?” he asks, even though he knows perfectly that she doesn’t. 

“I was under the impression that Miss Adler was particularly good at what she does, sir,” Anthea says, to give him the satisfaction of being one step ahead. She doesn’t particularly like it, but it’s her job. 

He lets out a quick chuckle. “I, ah, don’t doubt that. But Sherlock had her tracked down almost immediately - after I convinced him to take the case, anyway, which wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, as you can imagine.”

“He’s very stubborn, sir.”

“You could say that,” Mycroft says. He gets his cigarette case out of his breast pocket and opens it to present it to Anthea. She shakes her head. He takes one, lights it. “He hacked the house’s communication systems.”

“Really, sir?”

“Yes. And since you and Miss Adler seemed to be... say, cordial, after a certain amount of time, we thought it better not to get you too soon. A sort of undercover mission, if you will. I do know you’re not usually on the field, but those were exceptional circumstances. I assume you understand.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I trust you didn’t suffer any injuries?” he asks, his eyes suddenly sharp. 

“Miss Adler is a very considerate criminal, sir,” Anthea says. 

Mycroft gives a short laugh. “She certainly is.”

“Was that all, sir?” Anthea asks. She tries to think back to what she would’ve be done two months ago had she been in the exact same situation, but her brain blanks out. Damn Irene and her fantasies of freedom. 

“Yes, I think so,” Mycroft says. He releases a mouthful of smoke next to him. Anthea can’t help but watch the smoke tendrils curl around themselves in the air. “Thank you, Anthea.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Anthea says, standing up. She may not remember the feelings, but her body remembers the gestures: hands on knees, head slightly bowed, straight chin. 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything as she walks to the door. Only when her hand is on the knob does he talk, “Anthea.”

Anthea turns around. “Sir.”

“We’ll catch her,” he says. Earnestness doesn’t suit him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I have no doubt you will, sir,” Anthea says, her voice toneless. They probably will, and Anthea ought to be happy about that, but she isn’t. She doesn’t want to ponder on it; she’ll say it’s Stockholm syndrome and call it a day. It’s not that big of a deal, really. 

“Good night, sir.”

She hears Mycroft’s chair turning to face the window behind her. “Good night, Anthea,” he says. 

She closes the door.

*

The package takes another week to arrive. 

It’s the next Thursday. She’s coming back from work; it’s raining outside, so she’s soaked to the bone, but it feels good. Cleansing. You have to like rain when you’re British, anyway, or you’re doomed to be cranky for the rest of your life. 

It only takes her a few seconds to notice something’s wrong. She’s in a dangerous business, her boss occupies a “minor position in the British government” and she just got kidnapped last month; if the fact that she’s a professional wasn’t enough, those things would be enough to make her carry a gun at all times. She takes it out and cocks it in a few effective movements. She does take a few moments to wonder how the hell whoever came in her flat didn’t trigger the alarms, but she knows enough evil geniuses (Sherlock included) not to ponder on it too long.

She flicks the light on, keeping her grip on the gun, but there’s no one in the living-room except for a big package, propped against the couch. Anthea underwent the necessary training to handle this kind of situations when she started working for the government. She rapidly checks for signs that it’s a bomb, but there’s nothing, no clock, no ticking, no wires. Just cardboard. 

“Right,” Anthea says to herself. “Right.”

Opening it without calling a demining team probably isn’t a sensible choice; on the other hand, calling them or the police would mean explaining the package’s provenance, and if Anthea is guessing right, it's going to be difficult. There are few things Anthea needs (or wants) less in her life right now than to be placed under investigation. Besides, if Irene wanted to kill her, she had all the opportunities she needed to do it during the month she was keeping Anthea prisoner.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that the package isn’t from Irene, but the level of coincidence there would be pretty astounding. Anthea takes a deep breath. She programs her phone to call Mycroft in ten minutes, in case anything happens that invalidates her physically. You can never be too careful with unidentified packages.

She grabs a letter-opener on her desk and sets to cutting through the copious amount of tape holding the package closed, her gun still in hand. Now that she thinks about it, though, there's no reason Irene would send her anything, much less something this size. On the other hand, the package is half-opened and Anthea hasn't blown up yet. Whoever sent her this, the primary aim probably wasn't to make tiny pieces out of her.

She peels the last of the cardboard away. The thing inside is still wrapped in manilla paper; she tears it impatiently.

"Fuck."

Well. Definitely Irene, then.

*

The thing is, Anthea has always been a pretty self-sufficient person. She spent most of her childhood alone, doing the chores when she was asked and her homework even when she wasn't, read more books than people often told her to, and generally prepared herself to adult life and, on a shorter notice, adolescence as well as anyone with no idea what hormones are can.

High school was a little more bumpy, of course, but Anthea always managed to get straight As and present as a model student whatever epiphanies were going on in her private life. When college rolled around and she cut ties with her family for good, she was more than able to support for herself and ready not to take any paternalistic bullshit that was undoubtedly going to be served to her in the future. Now she's a woman with a stable, high-end job, virtually no relatives or romantic life to speak of, and very happy with it, thank you.

The point being, Anthea is usually pretty much self-sufficient. Except in times like now, when she has a Vermeer painting worth a few hundred million dollars in her living-room, with nothing to go with it but a note. Apparently Irene has been taking lessons from Moriarty. Anthea unfolds it, noticing angrily that her fingers are shaking.

_Thank you for everything. Having you around was lovely. Looking forward to a future meeting. IA._

Well, if that isn't cryptic. Anthea has a movement of anger. Really, they can all go fuck themselves, those self-congratulating, egotistical, megalomanic bastards. She was better off without them. She doesn't need this, she really doesn't – what possessed her to go work for Mycroft in the first place? If she hadn't, none of this would’ve happened: she wouldn't have met Sherlock, and she certainly wouldn't have been kidnapped by the most infuriating thief in the history of crime. God, what is she going to do with this painting?

She notices a smaller package on the side. It looks soft, so Anthea's going to assume that one isn't a bomb either. She picks it up – it's wrapped in thin paper, no manilla. Probably not another impossibly high-priced valuable, then. She opens it.

She wouldn't admit it under torture, but she recognizes the dress at first sight. It's the one she wore when Irene took her to Washington to see – well, the painting that’s currently sitting in the middle of her own living-room. It's low-cut but not enough to be inappropriate, on the elegant side of sexy. Not something Irene would wear - she's prone to more daring clothing choices, from what Anthea's seen - but not something Anthea would either; not professional enough. Anthea isn't stupid enough not to see the symbolism, though now she kind of wishes she were: it's a bridge between the two of them, soft velours cutout on the hips and smooth, expensive fabric for the rest, baring half the shoulders and stopping just above the knee. It's a good dress.

If Anthea were the sort of person that get their own melodramatic movies where they can sit on a windowsill and sing, marvelling at the ridiculousness of her own life, she probably would. What is she going to do with that painting? She's going to return it, of course, but she doubts the Museum is going to take it at face value if she brings a stolen Vermeer back to them claiming that she found it in her living-room. She can't send it without them inevitably tracing back to its source, alas not the original one; and she can't ask Mycroft for help without him asking questions Anthea very much doesn't want to answer (though he might already know the answers, if he listened in to all their conversations). God, this is such a mess.

Her personal safe isn't big enough for the painting, and it's too late to go to any bank, so Anthea settles for putting it in the closet in the room. She clears it beforehand, of course, and she locks every door she can, even adding a few locks on the closet itself. This is certainly not going to be the good night's sleep she was hoping for.

She can't stop worrying enough to do any work, so she eats a quick dinner in her kitchen, staring at the clock on the wall to prevent any other thought, takes a shower and goes back to the bedroom, her hair still soaking in a towel.

She feels devoid of any energy as she sits on the bed. Her gaze instinctively turns to the painting; she doesn’t think before she’s opening the closet and leaning the painting against the door. For the first time of the night, she takes in its beauty. It's not the fact that it's here, putting her in danger, really – it's more the wonder of it being so impossibly close, ready for study, evaluation, examination. She doesn't have to stand in a crowded hall, or even with Irene, her arms crossed, looking up on the wall. She can sit on her bed, naked in her nightgown, and watch it until her eyes are sore.

She doesn't, in the end. She knows she's going to give it back, there's no doubt about it – she's nearly not as unethical as the contrary would require. There's no point in making herself sick with envy. She'll examine it tomorrow, when her head is straight. Yeah, that’s a good plan.

She checks the locks on the closet three times, but it doesn’t keep her from staring at the ceiling until five a.m., wide awake. 

*

"I beg your pardon?”

If there wasn’t a more worrying problem at hand, Anthea would probably mark the day with a white stone: the day she surprised Mycroft Holmes. As it is, though, she links her hands behind her back and dutifully repeats. 

“I found Vermeer’s _Woman holding a balance_ in my living-room yesterday evening, sir.”

Mycroft looks utterly bewildered for a moment. He sighs. “Why didn’t you phone me as soon as you found it?”

Anthea is asking herself the same question, actually; the obvious proof of her emotional attachment to Irene, be it purely the result of a trauma-induced mental condition or not, is becoming worrying. “I didn’t believe it necessary, sir,” she said. 

“Well you were wrong,” Mycroft snaps. 

Anthea doesn’t react. Mycroft doesn’t apologize, but over the course of the following minutes he visibly calms down. When the transformation is complete, he looks as much the 'Ice Queen' that Sherlock calls him as he always does. It’s a horrible and fascinating thing, the way the Holmes brothers need only a few seconds to compose themselves into utter emotionlessness. 

“You’re positive the painting is from Miss Adler?” Mycroft asks. 

“Quite, sir.”

“Why is that?”

 _Did you not bug the place?_ Anthea wants to ask. Maybe he just wants to make her say it. Acknowledge that she made a mistake. God knows they like their twisted tests. 

“Upon my expressing an interest for Vermeer in a conversation, which you most certainly have heard, Miss Adler took it upon herself to bring me to the National Washington Museum to have a look at the original.”

“I’ll have a team sent at your flat to check for prints. Did you move the painting?”

“I’m afraid I did, sir. I wasn’t sure leaving it in the middle of my living-room was the safest course of action.”

For a second, Mycroft looks ready to scold her again, but he doesn’t. “Alright,” he says instead. “We’ll check if it’s an original, and if it is, we’ll arrange for the painting to be returned to its rightful owner.”

“Thank you, sir. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Mycroft waves a hand, already distracted. “It’s fine.”

Anthea is moving to walk out of the room when he stops her. 

“Oh, by the way, Anthea,” he says without looking at her, “I need to have a word with John. Do you mind...?”

Anthea has a hundred answers on the tip of her tongue, most of them including some sort of negative. “Of course, sir,” she says instead, and closes the door without making a sound. 

*

It all blows over eventually. Anthea has to make do with people in her flat puttering around the painting and trying to retrieve prints (unsuccessfully, of course, but Anthea won’t begrudge Mycroft for trying) and ascertain if it’s real for a week. They take it away when they realize that it is, and there’s a bit of negotiation with the American authorities on Mycroft’s behalf before he arranges for the painting to be sent back, compliments of the Queen. Anthea just assumes someone owed him a favour. 

As expected, Sherlock hasn’t taken advantage of her absence to grow out of his five-year-old ways. By nothing short of a miracle, Anthea finds time between babysitting him and doing actual work for Mycroft to go to her psychologist appointments which, for all they only prove mildly effective, make for a perfect mind-clearer. 

Irene doesn’t try to contact her again after the painting. Anthea tries not to feel disappointed about it. She hangs the dress at the back of her closet with her old clothes. 

All in all, life resumes its course, if not better than it was before, at least sensibly identical. Anthea goes to work every morning and lets her boss call her by the name he crafted for her; she goes back to her house every night and makes dinner for herself. At first there are still a few errant thoughts about freedom and art and friendship but they fade in the sharp, carbon-saturated London wind in no time. 

After a year, Anthea meets a girl during a mission. She’s working with the FBI to try and stop a check fraud scheme that's been going on in both countries. Her name is June. She smiles at Anthea from the corner of a precinct they’re visiting; Anthea catches it when she looks up from her Blackberry and smiles back distractedly. The next morning, June asks her out to coffee. 

“I only drink tea,” Anthea says, barely paying her any attention. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to drink anything.” 

It takes her three months to get Anthea to go out with her, but she eventually accepts, though not before having had an exhaustive background check performed. It turns out they have the same interests and June is neither a thief nor someone susceptible to gift an ex-lover a million dollar painting as a break-up gift, which is good. Anthea brings her home after the sixth date. The sex is good. 

One of the high points of the relationship, arguably, is seeing John’s panicked face as June gently but firmly asks him to please keep away. He still hasn’t recovered, judging by the way he sometimes looks at Anthea like he’s afraid she might turn into something big and scary that breathes fire. 

June proposes to her two years after they meet. Anthea refuses on the grounds that her first engagement was far from a success. It takes another four months, but June manages to convince her that she’s making the wrong choice. Anthea says yes. They’ll get married at the courthouse, neither of them are the big festivities type anyway. 

Mycroft is appropriately congratulatory and even sends a few bottle of the most expensive wine he could find (Anthea knows, she’s the one who ordered it) when he can’t make it to their engagement party. Sherlock insists on trying to wreck the reception by mass-deducing the guests; fortunately Anthea, always one for foresight, had the good idea to drug his punch. You don’t stay for more than a month in Irene Adler’s house without learning a few tricks. 

_The painting would have looked good above the fireplace,_ she thinks blurredly when June and her make it back to the house that night, but then June kisses her, her mouth tasting of cake and sweet white wine, and it fades away. 

*

Mycroft (well, officially the British government, but really Mycroft) captures Irene Adler on April 19. After a month of unsuccessful interrogation, Anthea, No Last Name, is sent in to question her on March 26.

Irene laughs when she sees Anthea. “Just in time,” she says. “I told you I wanted a summer wedding, didn’t I?”

Anthea knows better than to ask, and she doesn’t laugh back because the joke isn’t as much a joke as it is showing off. Irene tells her anyway. She must be bored to death - maybe she’s been in there longer than Mycroft told her.

“The trace of the ring, of course,” she says, waving a bored hand towards Anthea. Anthea has an instinct of hiding her arm behind her back, but she doesn’t do it.

The chair gives off an uncomfortable metallic noise when Anthea pulls it towards her.

“You’ve certainly taken your time,” Irene says. Seeing her without her usual suggestive clothing and clever make-up is strange to say the least. At least she still has the self-confidence that goes with it. “I was waiting for you.”

“Of course you were,” Anthea says.

"I was," Irene insists. "What next, if you don't crack me?" She makes ironic quotation marks with her hands at 'crack'; Anthea holds back laughter. "Darling Sherlock, I assume?"

"I think he's refused to meet with you, actually," Anthea says matter-of-factly. "You get the low-level government employee."

Irene's gaze focuses on her, sharp and alert. "Now now, darling. I told you not to underestimate yourself, didn't I?"

Anthea doesn't answer.

"Sherlock doesn't want to see me... well that's new, that's wonderful. And I who thought the great Sherlock Holmes could never refuse a challenge."

 _Maybe you weren't enough of a challenge anymore_ is fizzling on the tip of Anthea's tongue, but she doesn't say it.

"Do you want to confess?" she asks instead, settling her notepad on her crossed knees. "The government can offer you a deal, provided you give us the necessary information."

Irene blinks at her, as though trying to guess whether she's serious or not. When she realizes that it isn't a joke, she bursts out laughing, high-pitched and almost hysterical. "Oh my, doll, they sent you in to do the dirty work, didn't they?" She crosses her legs, obviously in her element. "I'm going to answer you the same thing I answered the other forty people who invaded my privacy to ask me the same question: you're quite pretty, dear, but not enough for me to agree to this, not in a million years."

As she looks down to inspect one of her nails, Anthea notices the bruising on her face. It's discrete – the government agents are professionals – but it's there. The torture wasn't in the file, Anthea thinks, vaguely repulsed – but then, when is it ever?

"You see," Irene continues, unaware of Anthea's discovery, "and I think that I already told you this, us thieves value freedom. I think we can agree that I am, if not the greatest thief of them all – I'm here, aren't I? - a quite successful businesswoman. And I'm afraid there aren't many things I value more than freedom on this pesky little earth.”

The traditional approach is clearly not going to work, Anthea thinks. Time to change tactics.

"Thank you for the painting," she says, surprising herself.

Irene smiles. Her mouth feels lacklustre without its usual bright red lipstick. "Yes," she says, making the word pop on her tongue, "you're quite welcome. It certainly has brought you luck, hasn't it? Something of a bride's bouquet."

"You could say that," Anthea chooses in her array of possible answers, brushing back _I thought you didn't believe in luck_ and _you should take the deal_. "Look, Irene -"

"Oh, are we on first-name basis now? I thought you were too shy for that, _Beatrice_ ," Irene says, leaning over the table on her elbows. 

Anthea shrugs. “What can I say? People change.”

“No they don’t. But I’m glad if you think that. You’re doing well for yourself, then? Haven’t gotten tired of being the Holmes’s lapdog yet?”

Anthea could probably get angry, but all the rebellion she had in her three years ago has cooled down to ash. “I don’t think we’re here to talk about me.”

Irene rests her chin on her palm, her long fingers framing the edge of her jaw. Her nails aren’t painted, Anthea notices. “Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re always here to talk about you.” She lets out a small sigh, then smiles. “When’s the wedding, then?”

“January,” Anthea says. 

“A winter wedding,” Irene says appreciatively. “Maybe you’re still a little bit bold after all. What’s his name?”

Anthea can’t say surprising a thief isn’t fun. Every time - Sherlock and now her -, there’s this little frustrated spark, this _I should have known_ , and they don’t realize that all the errors they make is because they underestimate everyone. It’s probably better this way, mind you. They’re not the type of people you’d want to be invulnerable. 

“Her name is June.”

Irene gives a surprised little laugh. “June! How charming - and quite ironic, too. Did you know I got married a few times?”

Anthea nods. “Yes. Seems that everyone’s known the joys of married life but me, really,” she says before she can check herself. She’s usually good at not divulging any information during this kind of things but for some reason, maybe all the conversations they had back at the manor, she feels strangely comfortable in Irene's company. She should’ve known it’d come back to bite her in the arse. 

“Never considered it?” Irene asks, getting comfortable in her chair - or at least as comfortable as you can be in a prison chair. Anthea has the absurd thought that the only things missing are tea and crumpets. 

She answers anyway. “I got engaged once. I was young.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence. They look at each other. That’s something Anthea always liked about Irene, the way she was always so paradoxically truthful. Maybe that’s what her ‘recreational scolding’ is about, after all. 

“Anyway,” Irene says, “what have you been up to since I saw you last? You look good.”

“Thank you,” Anthea says, holding back the urge to touch her hair self-consciously. 

“You know,” Irene starts. Once again her gaze seems fixed somewhere remote behind Anthea. “You know that painting? The one you said looked like me. _Nonchaloir._ ”

“Yes,” Anthea says. 

Irene’s eyes snap back to her, almost surprised. “I went to see the person I’d given it to. To see if they’d kept it. You were probably right, it’s quite cruel when you think about it.”

“And so?” Anthea asks when Irene doesn’t volunteer the information. “Had they?”

“Oh,” Irene smiles. “Yes. Yes, they had.”

Anthea doesn't answer anything; letting Irene savour this little victory feels like a small favour. 

“You know, you’re missing out," she says eventually. Irene's eyes snap back to her. "There’s something to be said about civilian life.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I’m afraid it’s just not for me, though, and it’s certainly not the occasional capture that will make me change my mind.”

A beat. 

“I’ve tried, you know."

Anthea blinks. All of a sudden she’s surprised by the starkness of Irene’s appearance, how bare she looks without her gloves and sheath dresses, her hair piled in intricate buns. “What?”

“Civilian life. I tried it for a while. But I’m afraid thieving isn’t much better than the rest of men’s vices, Miss Hayworth. Difficult to give up when you know how good it feels.”

What did Mycroft want her to bring back? A confession? Irene isn’t going to give her one, and Mycroft can’t have expected her to, he’s smarter than that. Was he doing her a favour?

“Don’t worry about it,” Irene says. It really is irritating, the way she always seems to catch the exact thought going through Anthea’s head. “Well, did you ever think about it? You must have, surrounded as you are by all those crooks. God knows Sherlock dabbled in the field.”

Ah, Sherlock again. “You know it’s possible to serve one’s country without thinking about betrayal,” Anthea says, only half-sincere. She’s got to play the part, doesn’t she? 

“Oh, I know,” Irene says nonchalantly. She smiles when she catches the sparkle of surprise on Anthea’s face. “But those who don’t are the stupid ones, and you’re anything but stupid. So, did you ever? It’s exciting, you know. Not exactly the safest job, but other than that it’s got it all, the glamour and the grandeur.”

“Are you trying to recruit me?”

“Ah, you decide, darling. Do you want the job?”

“No,” Anthea says before she can think too much about it. “I want you to tell me if you have anything to give the government that might make us keen on going easy on you.”

That does get Irene’s attention. Her eyes turn darker for a second, and she looks into Anthea’s eyes, as though trying to decide something. “Oh, darling,” she says after a moment of silence, “do you really believe that?”

Anthea doesn’t really want to leave, but someone has to put a stop to this and Irene won’t. “Well then, if you don’t have anything more to say,” she says, palms on the table. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” Irene says. Her legs are crossed again. She looks better like that; she belongs to herself, as though one of her expensive garments was back. “Come here a second.”

Anthea shouldn’t, but she does - it’s nothing, really. She’s done what she was asked for so long. 

“Can I call you Beatrice?” Irene asks, almost in a whisper. 

Anthea nods. 

“Come closer, Beatrice,” Irene beckons. She doesn’t have lipstick on. It can’t be dangerous. 

But it is, of course, and Anthea isn’t that surprised when Irene’s fingers close on her nape and she brings their mouths together. It’s everything Anthea had imagined it wouldn’t be, lingering but not sweet, Irene’s thumbs tracing patterns on her cheeks, sharp-soft with the edge of her nails and the pulp of her fingers. 

“Well,” Irene says when she pulls away, her chest heaving a little, “that was lovely. You know where to find me when you change your mind. Farewell, Beatrice.”

Anthea would think of something to say, but she can’t. Discretion is the better part of valour, she thinks, closing the door swiftly behind her. 

She allows herself a minute to rest her back against the steel door and let it all flood her over, a minute to breathe it all back in; then she smoothes down her skirt and gets her mobile out. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get anything out of her.”

Mycroft sighs on the other end of the line. “Yes, you were a last resort. Well, we’ll figure something out. Thank you, Anthea. You may go home. Get a good night’s rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Good night.”

She hangs up and sets on the hunt for a cab. 

*

Two days later, Irene Adler escapes from MI6’s most well-guarded containment facility. Anthea can’t say she’s surprised. 

*

On the 30th of January, Anthea and June get married in Newport, Vermont. June wears a designer dress, Anthea makes up a last name for the marriage license. 

One of June’s enumerable relatives barges into her room just before the ceremony. “Anthea. Someone left this at the front desk for you?” she says, holding up a small package. 

Anthea wants to say _did you check it for explosives_ , but she bites her tongue. Probably best not to anger the in-laws so soon. “Thank you.”

The package, when Anthea opens it after the necessary checks (all the tools are in her make-up bag, as usual), reveals a delicate, silver-wrought pendant. The notes that accompanies it only says: _Something borrowed. Congratulations, IA._

Irene Adler has reportedly been prisoner to the Mossad for three months. Anthea laughs a little before putting the pendant on. 

*

(Every time Irene is reported dead, Anthea wears the dress, just in case. June doesn’t ask.)


End file.
